Yes, Professor
by Quill Angel
Summary: "Your assignment, Mr Holmes?" Sherlock looked at him, feigning innocence. "Oh, I didn't do it, Professor." "And may I ask why not?" Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't feel like it."John doesn't know whether he wants to strangle his new student or bend him over the desk and fuck the 'yes sir,' right out of him. Sherlock, on the other hand, knows exactly what he wants. Or who he wants. Smut.
1. Chapter 1

**There isn't much plot. But then, who wants plot when you can have kinky porn. One more chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

_**:1:**_

To be honest, John hadn't thought that a perfectly normal day like the one he was having would end up being...not so normal.

When he came into class, he expected it to be empty, after all, he usually came before most of his students walked in. John was going to learn in the course of the next few days that none of his expectations would have even a modicum of reality.

The classroom wasn't empty.

In fact, he hadn't _noticed _that it wasn't empty, at first, because the first thing he did was put his books on the desk and balance his cup of coffee with the other hand.

Then he noticed a student sitting somewhere in the middle of the rows of desks, staring out of the window. He could only see a portion of his face, but he was pale, a messy mop of dark curls sticking up every which way. Long-fingered hands curled up in front of his mouth, and he gave no indication of having noticed that someone had entered the classroom. Let alone a professor.

"Can I help you?" John asked, and then the student looked up, and John also realised that in the next few days he would have to constantly remind himself that he was a professor.

The student cocked his head, pale, silvery eyes narrowed. John had no idea what colour those eyes were. "_Can _you help me? I don't know. I have no idea of your abilities, I wouldn't be able to answer that question." John blinked at him. The student stared back, regarding him with polite interest.

"I'm your professor," John told him, and he wasn't sure if he was stating a fact or defending himself because somehow this strangely attractive student was making him lose his train of thought. He was a _teacher_, for God's sake, who speaks to teachers like that?

"Are you?" he raised his eyebrows. "I would never have realised."

The obnoxious git was being _sarcastic._

"New student, are you?" John replied smoothly, leaning against the desk and crossing his arms, looking straight at him.

Pale pink lips turned up in a crooked smile. John thought those lips were far too pretty for a boy's. And then he told himself that he shouldn't be thinking about his lips at all. He shouldn't be thinking about those cheekbones either, he chastised himself. The boy continued to smirk at him, pale eyes sparkling under the shock of hair. And before John could think of something clever and intimidating to say, other students started trickling in and that weird, chest-tightening (trouser tightening?) feeling started to dissipate.

Except it didn't. John didn't know if he did it on purpose, or if he just _knew _the inappropriate thoughts that John was having regarding a twenty something student.

Or perhaps he was imagining. Definitely imagining it. Except that was a bit not good, because he had dropped his books twice when he looked up at John from beneath those god damn eyelashes, sinful little mouth smirking in salacious promise.

Then John got very annoyed because he was getting turned on in the middle of a class, and this was all very wrong and extremely inappropriate and if only _he would stop licking his lips like that, _things would be just a bit more easier.

"You there," he said, "Yeah, you, the one looking at the window," the boy turned away and looked at him, one dark eyebrow raised as if he were being interrupted, and that just pissed John off even more.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Yes _sir," _John prompted, and the other students stifled laughter.

He smirked, those pretty pink lips an amused curve. "Yes..._sir," _ he obliged, and John must have been imagining it when his voice dropped an octave on the last word.

"Repeat what I just said, Mr..." he raised an eyebrow, prompting him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, and the way he was looking at him...god _damn it..._challenging him..for what? What did he want? And why couldn't he stop thinking about what he would look like underneath him?

_Oh, for fuck's sake._

"Answer the question, Mr. Holmes," John said. "What did I just say?"

Sherlock repeated it, word for word, and when he was finished, he cocked his head at John and smiled that annoying crooked smile. That smile could have meant anything, but all it said in John's head was _fuck me, professor._

Which, of course, was _inappropriate, _and he would probably, you know, get fired for molesting a student and he _needed to stop._

But Sherlock, for sure, had no intention of helping him.

* * *

The most annoying thing of all was that Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant student. If he had been a poor one, John could have had _something _to complain about. But mixed signals notwithstanding, Sherlock was, in every way, a perfect student.

Which made John think of other things he might be perfect in. But that wasn't a healthy line of thought, so he stopped. Tried to stop. Try being the operative word. The point being that trying wasn't getting him anywhere.

But Sherlock was also the _most obnoxious, rude, arrogant _student he had ever met. Sometimes John thought that he was just pushing him, seeing how far he would go to get Sherlock into line. The ways he could get Sherlock in line were probably against the rules of the university, so he had to dismiss those thoughts immediately. Sherlock made this very difficult.

He had been teaching, of course. And he didn't remember what he had been teaching. Something to do with his subject, surely. And then Sherlock walked in, in one of his indecently tight shirts that made every plane of his torso stand out and drew attention to his nipples in just the right light—

The point _being_, of course, that he was late.

Sherlock didn't think he was late. Or if he did, he probably didn't think it was of any consequence. Before he sat down, John said, "Mr. Holmes, you're late."

And Sherlock stopped, right in front of the students and before John's desk and looked at him and said, "Yes, professor."

The way he said 'professor' should have been illegal.

John raised his eyebrows. "Mind telling me _why _you're late, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock checked his watch. "This conversation is tedious, Professor. Do you mind if I sat down?"

There was a hush in the class.

John wanted to throw something at Sherlock, and then push him against a wall and snog the smirk right off that pretty, pretty face.

"Mr. Holmes, need I remind you that I am your professor and when I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it?"

And there it was again, that little smile. That little smile that said, _I know that you want to shag me, sir,and I'd be most happy to oblige_. Or maybe that was John's imagination. Either way, it made his trousers tighten uncomfortably.

"I woke up late," Sherlock said airily. "That's a good enough excuse, I think? May I sit down, please, _sir_?"

He didn't know whether he wanted to strangle him or bend him over the desk and fuck the _yes, sir _right out of him.

John realised this was holding up the class and he might as well do what he was paid for. "There, right in the front row so I can keep an eye on you," he muttered. "And if you're late again I'll have to take this up with the Dean."

Sherlock sat down and smirked at him. "I'm sure, sir," he said, his voice low and predatory and John immediately started lecturing again in a voice that was louder than necessary.

Sherlock liked licking his lips. John would glance over at him once, twice, and Sherlock's eyes would sparkle with lewd intent and he would run his tongue over his teeth and John would clear his throat uncomfortably and his voice would go high pitched. Sherlock would notice and he would look down at his desk, stifling a laugh. John detested that laugh. John wanted to press his lips against that mouth and taste that laugh. He was surely going mad.

* * *

Then there was that weird incident that happened a week ago.

John had been in his room, drinking tea and reading a book. He didn't remember what book it was. The book was not the highlight of the evening. The highlight of the evening was Sherlock Holmes dressed in pyjamas knocking on his door and wanting to enter.

John hadn't _known _he was in pyjamas.

He found out when he opened the door and Sherlock grinned at him, dressed in a loose grey t-shirt and blue pyjama bottoms. His hair was a messy, glorious crown on top of his head and his grey/blue/green eyes were bright.

"Good evening, sir," he said. And John blinked at him.

"May I come in?" he repeated. He was holding up a sheaf of papers. "There's something I'd like to discuss."

"Er. I don't think this is a good idea," John insisted, standing at the door, staring at Sherlock because he looked rumpled and sexy and he was grinning in a very adorable way. If Sherlock stood there any longer, John would...John would...

"I'm only here to discuss the _paper_, Professor," Sherlock said, looking at him in a way that said he was not at all here to discuss the paper. John thought not discussing the paper was a brilliant idea. But most ideas seem brilliant when you're turned on and the idea involves sex.

"Alright," John said, and opened the door wider. Sherlock walked in. The pyjamas were hanging very low on his hips. His very slender hips. John imagined what those hips would feel like under his hands when he gripped them and—

"You gave me a B," Sherlock said, standing in the middle of the room and holding up his paper. "A _B, _sir," he repeated urgently.

John looked at him and smiled. "A B is what it deserves," he replied, standing in front of him. Sherlock was also very tall. A few inches taller than him. He had never been so close to him before, and it was driving him crazy.

"No, it deserves an A," Sherlock corrected him. John thought that Sherlock was in the habit of correcting everyone. He corrected him enough in class. He had also told him yesterday that he had had a bad date the previous night, for which John had sent him out of class. He wasn't sure if that was Sherlock's objective. Sherlock seemed to be the kind of boy who always got what he wanted.

"If you write an assignment that should get an _A," _John told him slowly, taking the sheaf out of his hand and flipping through it. "I will give you an A, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer to John. John should have stepped back. He didn't. Sherlock smelled like something heavenly, and he wanted to bury his nose in him and just breathe.

"You know I should have gotten an A, sir," he said, his voice dropping.

"I think I can decide what grade you deserve, Mr. Holmes," John replied, standing his ground.

Sherlock swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. John's gaze dropped to his pale neck, slender and feminine, almost—John wondered what it would like once John's teeth had left their mark. To run his tongue down the column of his throat. Sherlock's breathing accelerated slightly, and for a few seconds, they just stood like that, and John half-expected Sherlock to just push him against a wall, and he wanted him to do it, in fact he might have leaned in closer, he didn't remember—

"I'm an A level student, professor," he said, voice gravelly and low and seductive. It reminded him of chocolate. Velvet. Silk. Satin.

"I have no doubt," John replied, and he realised that Sherlock's mouth was much too close to his ear, and he could hear his elevated breathing. His trousers were uncomfortably tight, and he noticed Sherlock's gaze dropping downwards. A smirk played on the corner of his mouth. John took that as a cue to step back.

"I think you should leave," he said, the command coming out a bit harsher than he wanted it to.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "I don't think we've settled this."

"You want an A, work for it," John snapped. "Now go back to your room, Mr. Holmes, and I will see you in class tomorrow."

Sherlock smiled one of his private little smiles at John and then turned towards the door. "Oh, I'm sure you will, sir," he said, and left.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, please pay attention," he said, when Sherlock was looking out of the window. This annoyed him because John couldn't seem to stop looking at him, those eyes that kept changing colour, that bow shaped mouth, and thinking about, about—

Sherlock looked at him eyes wide. "Oh, sorry, Professor," he said, and then very deliberately, very slowly, he bit his plump bottom lip.

John looked away and continued to teach.

And then when class was over, and he remembered he had to ask for their assignments, he told his students to wait and said, "Please hand over your assignments."

Sherlock didn't.

He was walking out without having handed it in, and John stopped him from his desk and asked him, "Your assignment, Holmes."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and looked at him with a feigned look of innocence. "Oh, I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't do it," he said.

"And why not?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked, and shrugged. "Didn't feel like it," he said.

"That's a shame," John said, as the last of his students were trickling out. "Stay back in class, Mr. Holmes, for a few minutes. I think it's time we discussed your behaviour."

Sherlock walked over to his desk, and placed those long fingered hands on the wood, and said, "I'd be delighted, _sir."_

_I'm going to hell¸_ John thought.


	2. Chapter 2

:2:

Sherlock was still looking at him when the last of the students were gone, long fingered hands splayed against the surface of the table.

"Well, Professor," he said, his voice dropping an octave and sliding over John, velvety and seductive and _sexy, _"Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?" Then he raised an eyebrow and ran his tongue over his teeth slowly. John watched, as his heart rate went up and his fingers twitched.

_I want to shove you against the desk and fuck you so hard you won't be able to stand, _John thought, but he said, "Let's discuss your behaviour, shall we?"

"My _behaviour_," Sherlock echoed in a languid drawl, leaning forward over the desk so his face was inches away from John. "I've been a terrible student, haven't, I, sir?"

"Incorrigible," John answered, placing a palm on his chest and pushing him gently back.

"What are you going to do about it?" Sherlock asked, running a thumb slowly over his bottom lip.

John swallowed, following the path of one slender finger. "I think detention should be sufficient, Mr. Holmes. Twice a week for the next month until you learn how to behave yourself in class."

"I think you have more expedient ways of making me _behave, _Professor," Sherlock murmured, gaze dropping to John's mouth. And then John stopped thinking, because how much more explicit could an invitation _get_?

"I'm afraid expediency will get me fired," he said, without thinking, and Sherlock grinned.

"Now we're getting somewhere," he said gleefully, and then he sauntered over to John's side of the desk before John could stop him.

"Mr. Holmes," John told him lamely, but Sherlock seemed to be in no mood to listen. He stood close to John, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from his body, and John's blood moved sluggishly in his veins.

"Professor," Sherlock replied, stepping closer. "I think we've had enough of this game, don't you?" his voice was barely a whisper, eyes dark and hooded as he looked at John, and John could barely keep him knees from buckling.

"What game?" he asked. "We're not playing a game."

"Oh yes we are," Sherlock said. "And frankly, I've had enough of it." Then he bent down and whispered in John's ear, "Your heart rate is erratic and your pupils are dilated. I know you want to fuck me, and I want you to fuck me, so stop thinking so much and _do it."_

And that was the moment John's sense of self-preservation went and flew out the window and he told Sherlock, "Lock the door."

* * *

The satisfying click of the locking door was enough to make Sherlock's cock strain painfully against his front, and then he barely made it back to the desk when Professor Watson grabbed him and shoved him against the wall and crushed his lips to his.

_Oh, fuck. _

He moaned, openly, unable to stop himself as John licked his way inside Sherlock's mouth, tongue slick and wet and warm as he kissed him, reaching up to pin Sherlock's wrists over his head and keep him trapped against the wall with the pressure of his hips. John's erection pressed insistently against his thigh, and Sherlock whimpered, trying to level them to get the friction he needed. _Yes, yes, yes, oh god yes, finally, finally._

Then John pulled away a fraction and growled in his ear, "Tell me right now if you don't want this, because once I start I won't be able to stop."

"Oh god now don't stop professor _please_," Sherlock panted, shuddering against him, and John huffed a laugh and tugged on Sherlock's earlobe with his teeth, hands moving up to curl themselves in Sherlock's hair as he pulled his head back, exposing his neck, and Sherlock cried out at the wet touch of John's mouth against his neck.

"Shhhh," John admonished him lightly, and his tongue made a slow path up Sherlock's throat, before his lips latched around his pulse and he sucked. Sherlock gritted his teeth as John's hands moved to the buttons on his shirt, ripping it apart in his haste, but Sherlock didn't give a damn about his ruined shirt, all he cared about was John's calloused palm running down his chest and his torso, making shivers run down his spine and his legs shake. He groaned, deep and low, hips canting against John's groin.

"Fuck, sir, Professor, _please_," he croaked, when John teasingly brushed his fingers against his clothed erection. It made his entire body jolt, and John chuckled, pushing him harder against the wall, and placed hot, open mouthed kisses against his neck and his collarbone. The shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, and John gave it a swift probe with his fingers so that it fell down in a hush of silk. His lips moved to his shoulder, unsheathing his teeth in a teasing bite, and he took Sherlock's leg and hitched it around his waist, Sherlock making a choked noise as he rolled his hips against him. "Oh, _fuck,_" he breathed, and John whispered "_Shhhhh,"_ grinding his arousal between Sherlock's legs,which just made Sherlock moan louder.

"Tell me what you want," he rasped against the hollow at the base of his throat, and swirled his tongue around the spot, so that Sherlock sucked in a gasp and made a helpless little noise that made John rut harder against his erection.

"Tell me," he ordered again, roughly, and Sherlock said raggedly, "I want you to fuck me. Now. On the desk. Please, Professor."

Without a word, John grabbed his hips and shoved him, hard, against the desk. The wood was painful against his naked back, but he didn't get much time to think about it, because John kissed him again, hard and bruising and Sherlock felt his world tip sideways on its axis.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice trembling with need and it was so hot that Sherlock could have come from it.

Sherlock did as he ordered, rim of the table pressing against his stomach, and John placed a hand on his back and pushed him against the table, until his chest lay on it, wood cool and hard.

And John stood behind him, and he heard the tell-tale metallic whisper of a zipper as it was pulled down and then an erection pushed against his as-of-yet clothed backside, and the heavy, hot pressure of it made Sherlock's breath hitch and his body quake as he held the table tighter.

"Condom?" John asked, the word rushing out in a breath of air.

Sherlock would have laughed if he hadn't been so horny. "Pocket," he answered, and then, "_Hurry._"

John slipped his fingers into his pocket, and even the slight touch of skin against his thigh made Sherlock whimper and bite his lip and push his arse against John's erection which made his professor growl and say, "_Be still."_

Which Sherlock had no intention of doing, because he heard the rip of foil and the sound made his blood sing, thinking of John's cock as he slipped the condom on, and his entire body trembled with ill-suppressed desire and he moaned, "Hurry _up_."

Then John bent down, his erection pressing against his backside, heavy and demanding and he whispered in his ear so that his breath played across a cheek, "I don't have lube, so we'll just have to make do with this," and two blunt, calloused fingers brushed against his mouth as John said, "Suck."

Sherlock closed his lips around John's fingers and _sucked. _

John moaned at the pressure of Sherlock's teeth and his tongue as he swirled around John's skin, coating it in his saliva, John pressed himself against Sherlock and his hand slipped underneath to palm his erection, and the sudden jolt of pleasure made Sherlock bite his fingers and lurch against his palm.

"Behave," John said darkly, and Sherlock sucked some more while John rubbed his cock through his trousers, and this was _nothing_, and yet it was too much, far too much, and Sherlock felt like an absolute mess, quivering and quaking and whimpering John's name against his bloody _fingers _when he hadn't even _fucked him yet._

John chuckled, and then, Sherlock's mouth still around his fingers, he used his other hand to pull down his fly and push his trousers and his pants around his thighs and Sherlock's knuckles went white. "Oh for _fuck's sake_," he groaned, and then John slipped his finger out of Sherlock's mouth and then slid one inside him and Sherlock bucked his hips against the wood of the desk and screamed loud enough to wake the dead.

"_Quiet_," John hissed in his ear, slowly working him open and Sherlock didn't think that keeping_ quiet _was on his list of priorities now, not when John's fingers were inside him and one hand was gripping his waist to keep him steady and _oh god _John was so good at this, _so good_, especially when he slid a second finger and scissored him and then he felt his fingers slide deeper and rub over his prostate and Sherlock nearly lost it, mewling and scrabbling at the desk.

"Just _fuck me _already," Sherlock rasped, and John said, "Not yet," and slid a third finger inside, and his fingers rubbed his prostate again and Sherlock gasped and groaned and John had to press his palm down against Sherlock back to keep him still. Sherlock moaned brokenly and canted his hips forward and backwards between the unyielding wood and the weight of John's cock, which was still, maddeningly, _not inside him yet._

Then John's finger was out, and he lined himself behind Sherlock, teasingly brushing his entrance and then he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "I'm going to fuck you now, and I'm going to make you scream, but you're going to keep your pretty lips sealed, okay?"

Sherlock wanted to point out the unfairness of this command, because if John was going to make him scream then he would very much like to scream, but he said, "Just fuck me, please," which seemed to satisfy his professor enough because he gripped his hips and slowly eased himself into Sherlock, and Sherlock groaned, slow and deep, and he could hear John pant behind him, and he heard him say, "Tell me if I hurt you," it was not his usual voice, slow and deep and steady, no, this time John sounded wrecked and barely holding on to his control, which was _exactly _how Sherlock wanted him, so he ground his hips against John's erection, taking him in deeper, and John's fingers dug painfully into his skin and his hips rolled forward immediately.

"Oh Jesus, _Sherlock_," he said shakily, and Sherlock felt him sink deeper inside, and his eyes fluttered closed at the feel of him, stretching him and he felt open and exposed and _so damn good._ And then he felt John press on top of him, cock seated firmly inside him and his chest was against his back, heavy weight on top of Sherlock and he told him, "Is this okay?"

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a shout and said, "Oh _god yes,_ _please_, just, oh, _professor, please."_

John's fingers splayed against his abdomen, and he pressed Sherlock deeper into him, and then he rolled his hips forward in a slow, torturous thrust and Sherlock flailed, trying and failing to get a good grip on the desk. And John moved, at a slow, _slow _pace, his mouth at Sherlock's ear so he could hear every quickened pace of breath, the trembling tone of it, as if John was barely able to hold himself back.

"Harder, _please_, harder, professor," Sherlock babbled breathlessly, wanting to scream it out, but he felt trapped and his breath was hitching and _oh god _everything was just a haze of _wantwantwantneedneedneed _ and when he felt John push in faster, pulling out and then thrusting back into him with sudden force Sherlock keened with pleasure.

"_Faster_," Sherlock huffed and John took his wrists and pushed them down on top of the table, fingers interlacing with Sherlock's, pinning him down effectively, so that Sherlock could barely move, and to be honest, it seemed like a _fantastic _idea, to lay there and let John fuck him, slow, teasing strokes now fast and hard, as he shifted Sherlock's hips, hitting him _just right_ over his prostrate and making Sherlock howl in return.

"Be _quiet," _John said roughly, and nibbled at the shell of his ear, making Sherlock's cock throb and twitch while John slammed into him again, and again, and Sherlock was a needy, pleading, incoherent mess on the table, babbling, "Oh _god yes, _oh _fuck, _Professor, yes right _there, _fuck, yes, don't stop, please _oh god harder," _and John complied, hips trembling and breath stuttering as he thrusted into him, groaning so low and deep that it sounded absolutely _filthy, _especially when he growled, "Oh god, _Sherlock_."

Fingers tightened their grip over Sherlock's wrists as John hit his prostate again and again, and Sherlock gasped, pleasure coiling in the pit of his belly as John rutted against him, felt it building and his cock throbbed between his legs, still neglected, but now he would—_oh god he was going to—_

"Professor," he panted, writhing under him, literally humping the desk, and John pressed down harder on Sherlock's wrists, "Professor, oh god, I'm going to—oh fuck—"

And then he felt John tense behind him and hit him _just right_, and Sherlock came, screaming, "Oh god _Professor," _ and his cock pulsed, ejaculate on the floor and on his belly and against the desk, and John grunted, still rolling his hips into him, but Sherlock barely noticed, no, all he felt was this maddening orgasm that seemed to go on forever and he keened and he moaned and he heard John say behind him, "That's it, yeah, that's it, Sherlock, fuck," hipbones digging into Sherlock's arse as he moved.

And he felt John against him, thrust once, twice, thrice, slowly, until he heard him groan and whimper his name and then fill him with warm, wet heat, and he fell against Sherlock, trapping him against the desk, panting heavily.

"Oh, _Professor," _Sherlock whispered, a grin twisting his mouth, even as his legs shook with exhaustion and sweat dripped down his temples.

"Good?" John asked, and his lips pressed a light kiss under Sherlock's ear.

"A plus," Sherlock answered breathily, and John laughed, which honestly, was the most wonderful thing that Sherlock had ever heard in his life.

* * *

A well-fucked Sherlock Holmes was, quite possibly, the most beautiful thing that John had ever seen in his life. Other things were Sherlock Holmes gasping and writhing underneath him screaming his name and telling him to _go harder, professor._

John gently eased himself out of him, and Sherlock let out a little gasp and John hoped that he hadn't hurt him, because seriously, he had lost all control the moment he was inside him, and the past—how long had it taken? It seemed like barely a minute—was just a grimy haze of sweat and sex and Sherlock and _harderfasterharderfaster_.

John discreetly threw the condom into the dustbin and pushed it under the desk with his foot, and then he did up his trousers. Sherlock, still panting lightly, lifted himself off the desk and pulled up his own trousers and pants and then slumped into John's chair, a thoroughly-fucked heap of pale skin and dark hair and pretty, pretty lips.

His cheeks were red, lips swollen from John's kisses, hair insane, fringe sticking to his forehead, but he looked up at John, grey eyes twinkling, and he smirked.

"You have a class in ten minutes, Professor, in this very room," Sherlock informed him, letting his gaze travel up the length of John's body. "You don't seem to be in a fit state to teach."

John looked at him, amused, and threw him his shirt. "And how exactly are you going to leave this classroom in _that_?" he pointed at the shirt.

Sherlock shrugged. "Oh, _I'll _find a way." Then he stood up, and slipped the shirt onto his shoulders, and caging John against the desk, pressed his still-swollen lips against John's, softly, and kissed him quite thoroughly.

"Go out with me," John told him, without thinking.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Go..." he said uncertainly and then, "What?"

_The seventh circle of hell, _John thought. _That's where I'm going_.

"Out. With me. Tea, coffee, whatever you want. Unless, you know," John waved his hand in a vague gesture. "This is what you wanted. Quick fuck on my desk. Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said, still looking at him strangely. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, doing up the buttons on that obscenely tight purple shirt that still remained. Flashes of his chest and collarbone were still visible.

"You'll have to keep it a secret," Sherlock finally told him. "If they find out you'll get fired."

John shrugged. "What's life without a little risk?"

And then Sherlock grinned at him, dazzling and bright, and then kissed him again, quick and hard, hands cupping his face, and then, when he pulled away, he told him, "You are my favourite teacher _ever_, Professor Watson."

"It's John," John replied, dazed. "Call me John outside of class."

"_John_," Sherlock said slowly, caressing the name, and John wondered how on earth a plain, four-letter name could sound so _hot._ "That's the first time I've said it out loud. The next time you fuck me, Professor, I'm sure to use that name."

And then he walked towards the door, but before he left, he called out, "Today, seven pm. Come if convenient," and then he was gone, door swinging behind him.

Half a second later, he poked his head into the room and told him, "If inconvenient, come anyway," and then he left.

John chuckled, thinking that it was the first time he'd felt alive in _years._


End file.
